Office Party Pooper

It’s generally awkward to go to the office holiday party of a spouse or significant other. There’s a bond between workmates born of the endless tedium of working day after day in a confined space that outsiders (e.g. me) aren’t privy to.

This year, personally, Sam’s office party did not go well. When I was young, people got a kick out of me because they found me offbeat. Now that I’m old, people avoid me because they find me odd.

Still, I’m gregarious, and I manage to get into situations. The first had me justifiably offended, and the second, I apparently hit a conversational tripwire resulting in a fellow attendee’s tirade and hasty exit from the venue. And I hadn’t even begun stabbing at my dinner yet!

Another problem is that I’m running short on the frontal lobe necessary to sustain fake interest in what people are blathering about. My limit is maybe twenty minutes, tops. You get an office with a long history together, though, give them some booze, and they can whoop it up all night long.

This sounds like a complaint, but it’s not. It’s a confession. I know I’m unreasonable. I’ve dragged Sam to my own work holiday parties and he was fine, though I daresay it’s less emotionally draining to sit at a table looking every bit as bored as he felt than it is to do what I do: proactively instigate.

Next year, I told Sam, the night of his office party, I’ve already made alternate plans with my sweatpants. We’ll be staying in. He looked relieved.